


The Fault In Your Flirting

by AceyEnn



Series: Served Promptly [13]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cancer, EXTREME ROMANCE FAIL, Other, cronus is a dick, terminal illness, this isn't the cancer fic i've been working on 5evr btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceyEnn/pseuds/AceyEnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aradia has no tits and is dying. Cronus has one ball and probably isn't dying, probably, but he'll take any excuse to finally get laid that he can get.</p>
<p>(It doesn't work.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fault In Your Flirting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FailureArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailureArtist/gifts).



> i forget the exact prompt but FA wanted basically tfios fix-fic with cronus as gus and aradia as a girl who is Not Into That Shit and WHO WAS I TO TURN DOWN SUCH A PROMPT 
> 
> (this was originally posted on the kink meme btw but i've edited it and any future updates will be here yo)

Your name is Aradia Megido. You’re sixteen years old. You like books and adventure movies and history.

 

You have metastatic breast cancer.

 

You were fourteen when you were diagnosed, young for that particular disease. And unfortunately for you, it had already started to spread. They tried chemo. They tried radiation. They tried lopping off your boobs.

 

The good news is that you suppose you don’t truly have  breast cancer anymore, considering that you no longer have breasts. The bad news is that now you have lung cancer, and liver cancer, and bone cancer, and it is going to kill you. There’s nothing that can be done about that. 

 

They stopped treatment once it became clear that you wouldn’t survive, because it was only making you feel crappy all the time, and you wanted to be relatively comfortable. Everything the doctors do for you now is palliative.

 

Painkillers for the pain. Antiemetics for when you’re feeling too sick to eat without puking. A wide array of medicines to keep infections at bay and bolster your shitty excuse for an immune system. An oxygen tank to keep you breathing properly.

 

It’s not exactly what you wanted out of life. 

 

But it could be worse, and you know that. Yeah, cancer sucks in so many different ways, and you’re not exactly happy that you’ll never get to be a famous archaeologist or historian like you’d always planned, but...you’re not that scared of dying, to be honest. 

 

After all, in the words of Peter Pan, to die will be an awfully big adventure, and you always did love adventures.

 

\---

 

Save for the seemingly endless trips to the hospital, you don’t usually leave the house. You had to leave school when you were fifteen, though you’ve continued taking classes online, and it wasn’t like there’s a lot you can physically do nowadays.

 

The one exception is Friday evenings, when you attend a support group for young adults with cancer.

 

You didn’t initially want to attend, back when you were first diagnosed. Your mom was insistent that you go, however, and while the meeting itself is always rather dull, it’s how you met most of your friends. (That’s the one truly good thing that came out of your cancer--you have actual real-life friends now.)

 

Plus they have free pizza, which is nice when you’re able to keep it down.

 

It’s a Friday, so you go through your usual routine. You pick out an outfit--a bright red t-shirt, a dark red zipper hoodie, and a knee-length black skirt, along with your sneakers and underthings. Despite the double mastectomy, you still wear a bra, stuffing it with tissues to make yourself look like you still have breasts; that’s the one thing you’re still insecure about.

 

Makeup next. Black mascara, red lipstick--your go-to look. 

 

And then the wig. Your hair began to grow back when you stopped chemo, but it’s still pretty short, and you miss your long tresses. They just suited you better, and anything that keeps you a bit warmer is nice in your eyes.

 

Last of all, you put the little breathing tubes back in your nose, grabbing the little cart that carries your oxygen tank. It’s been a relatively easy day for you as far as general wellbeing is concerned, but you know full well that things could go south, and you don’t want that happening, especially when you’re out and about.

 

“Aradia, it’s time to go!”

 

You lost track of time again, you suppose. “Coming, Mom!” you call back, as loudly as possible. You stuff your cell phone and a book in your purse on the way out of your room, and within five minutes, you’re out the door.

 

\---

 

The first thing you notice when you get to the rec center is that the seat next to yours in the circle--the seat that’s been empty for a good two months now--is occupied by someone you don’t think you’ve seen in your life.

 

Actually, that’s the only thing you notice, really. Everything else is as it always is.

 

You sit down in your usual seat, between Dave and whoever this new guy is. Dave nods at you. “Hey, ‘Dia. Seems you noticed the new douche, and before you ask, I have no clue who the fuck he is or why he’s even here, so don’t even bother asking.”

 

You smile. “Hi, Dave. Wasn’t gonna ask, but okay.”

 

The moderator--a genuinely nice childhood cancer survivor (now in her thirties) named Calliope, who you’re actually rather fond of even if she’s a bit twee at times--stands from her seat. “I see everyone is present,” she chirps. “Shall we go around and introduce ourselves? It’s your turn to start, Vriska.”

 

You have to do this every time. Name. Age. Diagnosis. How you’re doing.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Vriska Serket, seventeen, osteosarcoma, they cut my fucking arm off a few weeks back, as you can obviously see, and I spent a shitload of time having to recuperate and I’m pissed about it but I  guess I’m okay otherwise.”

 

“I’m Roxy Lalonde and I’m nineteen. Liver cancer. Feelin’ like shit an’ I’m yellow as a goddamn Simpson but whatevs, what else is new.”

 

“Terezi Pyrope. Fifteen. Retinoblastoma. I’m doing well, but I’m still trying to get used to the glass eyes.”

 

“Karkat Vantas, fifteen, leukemia, let’s just get this bullshit over with because I’d rather be puking my fucking guts out than sitting here. And yes, that is precisely how I currently feel--like fucking  puking . But what the fuck else is new?”

 

“My name is Jade Harley, I’m fourteen, and I have melanoma. And I feel like total crap right now. Is it okay if I just sleep through this meeting?” (The look Calliope gives her is sympathetic, but she shakes her head regardless.)

 

“Dave Strider. Fourteen. Lymphoma. Feelin’ chill as ever.”

 

Oh. Right. Your go.

 

“Aradia Megido. I’m sixteen. I have breast cancer, and...I’m doing okay.” It’s the exact same thing you’ve said every time for the past few months--you see no real purpose in going into detail, and besides, “okay” is ambiguous enough that no one’s gonna question it either way.  And it's generally true, depending on how one interprets it.

 

You always did love being a bit cryptic.

 

The new kid stands, almost as if to say, “I’m doing better than most of you and it’s awesome.” It makes you cringe; even if he wasn’t trying to give off that vibe, it just doesn’t sit well with you. 

 

“Well, my name is Cronus Ampora. I’m nineteen years of age, and I have testicular cancer. They cut one of my balls off last month...but it’s cool, the other one’s big enough to count as two.” He turns to you and winks in a ridiculously exaggerated manner; you feel like throwing up, and for once it’s not just run-of-the-mill cancer nausea bullshit.

 

“Cronus,” Calliope says--gently, she says everything so gently--”I don’t believe that’s an appropriate thing to say in this context. Do refrain from making such comments in the future, okay?”

 

“Fine, fine, whatever.” He flops back melodramatically into his chair--a feat that would’ve worked a lot better if it hadn’t been a flimsy folding chair that toppled over the instant he landed.

 

“Oh goodness,” Calliope gasps, “are you alright?”

 

You can’t help but laugh. Okay, this guy’s a creepy pervert and awful in every way, from what you can tell, but at least he’s entertaining.

  
"I'm fine," he sighs, and the sheer degree of melodrama he exudes is unbelievable. What a prick.

At least you don't have to spend any real time with him.  



End file.
